


Measure Up

by infiniteeight



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Not Agents Of SHIELD compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:51:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1206751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteeight/pseuds/infiniteeight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint realizes his time in the field has come to an end. Phil comforts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Measure Up

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Selori for betaing, and for reassuring me that this was worth posting. I waffled on it a lot. :)

Clint released the last arrow, light-headed with the effort it took to keep his breathing even and predictable, and felt an undeniable surge of relief when the indicator flashed red, indicating that his speed test was over, all the allotted arrows consumed. He resisted the urge to lean on the end of the firing lane, or to roll his aching shoulders, only allowing himself to gulp in the air he needed. He'd completely caught his breath by the time he dragged his eyes over to the readout that would give him his score.

For a long moment, all he could do was look at it. 

It wasn't a surprise, not really. He'd known he wasn't as fast as he used to be. He'd been slowing down for years, but speed wasn't everything. Precision, judgment, the sheer distance and difficulty of the shots he could make...those still counted. But there was 'slowing down', and there was 'too slow'. Yesterday, he'd made the shot, and made it in time. Today...he knew that he'd been lucky. He couldn't make that speed consistently, not any more. 

Clint reached out and punched the 'Clear' button on the readout, not saving the score. He turned, intending to leave the lane, but he couldn't quite bring himself to step out. Instead, he slowly sank to the floor, leaning back against the firing position, his bow in his lap.

He was 45. At 45, May had still been kicking ass and taking names. At 45, Phil had still been Strike Team Delta's field handler. Even Sitwell--a good agent, but undeniably less legendary--was still going strong and he was _older_ than Clint.

But Hawkeye...at 45 Hawkeye couldn't cut it anymore.

Clint ran his hand over the limbs of his bow, his beautiful recurve, and tried to imagine taking it out only for practice. For...for fucking _recreation_. He couldn't even imagine it. It was a fucking weapon, not a toy. Just like him. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the end of the lane. He wondered if he ought to give up the name. Hawkeye was the World's Greatest Marksman. Clint Barton wasn't sure how much longer he'd hold on to that title, if he could even claim it now. And if he couldn't...everything good in his life had come to Clint after he'd become Hawkeye, after he'd left the circus and truly made the name his own.

For a moment, Clint wondered how long he could fake it. He was still damn good. Most of the time he'd probably make the shot anyway. He could probably even get through a couple of botched missions before they realized what the problem was. But...fuck, SHIELD deserved better than that from him. The Avengers deserved better. God knew Phil deserved better.

God, Phil.

Clint could feel a tight, hard knot grow in his chest. Phil, who had told him how many times that he'd been half in love by the time he'd finished chasing Clint down for SHIELD, just because Clint had been so damn good at what he did? Phil, who would come down to just watch Clint at the range, sometimes. Phil, who had always been so _proud_ of him. Disappointing him was inevitable now, but Clint damn sure wasn't going to do it on a mission. Just because time was stealing him away didn't mean Clint had to throw in with it.

There was a soft _whoosh_ as the range door slid open and Clint remembered he hadn't set the privacy lock. 

"Clint?"

 _Speak of the devil,_ Clint thought, though he really should have expected Phil. He'd been down here too long. He knew he should stand, smile, pretend like everything was okay, but his bow felt heavy across his lap, and he didn't really want to see the remains of his speed run, even if the grouping was perfect and the time erased. 

Phil stepped into view, his eyes dropping to Clint and his face creasing immediately with concern. "Clint? What's wrong?" He lowered himself into a crouch, not reaching out to touch yet. Part of Clint wanted to smile; Phil never made assumptions about what was wrong and whether or not contact would be welcome. 

That didn't mean he didn't employ deductive reasoning, and Clint wasn't exactly being subtle, sitting here in the shooting lane, his bow across his lap. "Practice not go well?"

"It wasn't practice," Clint said quietly. "It was a test." Phil raised an eyebrow, knowing no tests had been set for Clint. "I set it myself," Clint explained. "I almost missed the shot yesterday. I was almost too slow. I had to know if there was a chance it would happen again."

"I take it there's a chance," Phil said, gesturing at Clint's position.

He nodded. "Pretty good one, actually." He swallowed hard, made himself say it. "Don't think I can be an Avenger any more, boss." Phil hadn't been his boss for years, but here...it felt right.

Phil sighed, but he didn't look at all surprised. Had Clint's decline been that obvious? Straightening up out of his crouch, Phil held out his hand. "Come on. I can tell you from experience, this conversation is easier when accompanied by a drink."

The comment gave Clint a moment's pause. Phil had been through this, hadn't he? Gripping his bow in one hand, Clint accepted Phil's offer and levered himself to his feet. Some ways you looked at it, Phil had been through this twice--once after the Asgardian bastard had stabbed him and his field clearance had been medically revoked, and once two years ago when he'd hit SHIELD's mandatory retirement age (55, in line with most military services). A special exception had been made, so he wasn't entirely retired, but it was true that his work these days involved files and lectures and meetings at HQ, most of it involving newly recruited assets.

Clint turned that over in his head as he stowed his bow and quiver and let Phil walk him out of the range. 'Walking him out' was usually just that, but today Phil put his arm around Clint's waist as they walked, his thumb tucked easily into the pocket on Clint's far side. Clint shot him a glance, but Phil just smiled and tugged Clint in to lean against him a bit as they rode the elevator from the Tower's range to their quarters. Clint let himself be tugged. It felt good. It...well, it didn't _feel_ like Phil was going anywhere.

When they got back to their rooms, Phil brought Clint into the kitchen with him and positioned him against the counter. "You know how many times I took the firearms certification exam--informally--before I finally signed off on my medical withdrawal from field work?" Phil asked as he gathered the fixings for peppermint hot chocolate. Apparently he hadn't meant an _alcoholic_ drink.

"I didn't know you'd taken it at all," Clint said aloud. He'd thought Phil had accepted the whole thing quite gracefully. Sure, he'd done a year of physical therapy before making it official, but that just made sense, right? Seeing where your body really was at before finalizing everything.

"Twelve times," Phil said. He paused, looking down at the melting chocolate and shook his head. "I practiced so much, I developed a stress fracture in my wrist."

Clint was surprised. Phil still practiced on the range regularly; it had never even occurred to Clint that he wasn't certified by SHIELD anymore. "You still shoot well."

"Well." Phil looked up at Clint and smiled wryly. "Just not well enough."

Clint bit his lip and dropped his eyes. "Yeah, but...you were 50 by then. And it was medical, not..." Clint trailed off and waved an inarticulate hand.

Phil gave the pot a stir and then stepped away from it to pull Clint into his arms. Clint went, hiding his face in Phil's shoulder. "What you do is the epitome of precision work, Clint," Phil said. "Regular snipers are either promoted out of the field or retired on medical grounds _years_ earlier than this, and regular snipers aren't handed the kind of missions SHIELD hands its agents--or the Avengers. You can't hold yourself up next to people who generally deal with targets that are usually less than twenty yards away--hell, that are usually within arm's length." 

Phil stepped back out of the embrace, but he cupped Clint's face in his hands. "And if you _are_ measuring yourself against me--or May, or Fury, or whoever else--then you're _beating_ us," Phil said fiercely. "Because when my body couldn't keep up anymore, I denied it until I did actual physical damage to myself. But you..." Phil laughed, that fond, proud laugh that Clint loved. "When you _almost_ miss a shot, you take yourself down to the range and test yourself properly and make the right decision the first time." Phil leaned in and kissed Clint deeply. "God, I love you," he murmured against Clint's mouth.

Clint leaned his forehead against Phil's and took a breath so he could talk around the sudden lump in his throat. "That mean you're still gonna love me when my hair goes grey and my ass goes flat and me and my bow can't out-shoot the kids on the gun range anymore?" It was supposed to be a joke, but his voice cracked on the word 'bow'.

"Yes," Phil said, rubbing his thumb over Clint's jaw. "Just like you still love me even though I've already lost most of my hair and I'm developing a belly and I spent three hours last week looking for the latest potential recruit evaluation file only to remember the next day that I'd already finished with it and couriered it back to HQ."

Clint almost said, _You did not,_ but then he realized there was just a hint of tension in Phil's hands and... _oh_. So instead he smiled and said. "I do still love you. Even though you also forgot about the chocolate on the stove, which is now burning."

Phil cursed and spun back to the stovetop. And maybe Clint quickly wiped a bit of moisture from the corners of his eyes while Phil's back was turned, but Phil claimed it was the thread of smoke that made his voice rough when he admitted the hot chocolate was ruined. The way they sank back into each other's embrace once the pot had been abandoned in the sink said that they both knew better.

~!~


End file.
